


Principe Azul

by siba



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Implied Levi/Erwin Smith, Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 16:03:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6015655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siba/pseuds/siba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Kirschtein has been living in the shadow of his father for years, the same man who took off shortly after his Senior year in High School. He's been trying to live up to his expectations for years, but all it's done is create a young man who is too anxious to even decide what he wants to do with the rest of his life. <br/>He feels the pressure of reality pressing down on him everywhere he goes. Except for when he is dragged to a local Restaurant. That's the only place that he seems to find solace, in the brilliant smile of a freckled mariachi..</p>
            </blockquote>





	Principe Azul

The previous fall, had been one of the warmest on record for the thriving city of Trost, a glimmering metropolis that was so desperate to live up to the shadows of much larger cities. In the dry, clear nighttime sky, it could even be mistaken for a large city; how it gives off this golden luminescent glow that looks like a million fireflies captured in a singular jar, making up the city. The lights of cars constantly moving and lighting up their pathways like the millions of fireflies. But unlike the giant jar of fireflies, a constant trap to the small, beautiful bugs inside; people were free to go from Trost. They were all free, to live up to their goals, free to go out on friday nights and just let go of themselves amongst the golden radiance that was Trost.   
All except for me. Jean kirschtein, first year Journalism student and acclaimed couch potato who could eat an entire bag of potato chip in less than ten minutes flat; and that was on a bad day.   
While the rest of the residents of Trost were free to travel around as they pleased; living and loving to their hearts content, or to the content of their various physical needs more likely- I was confined in plastered white walls. I was trapped inside of the expectations set forth for me by upper middle class suburbia. Of course I was well aware that the confines of my mental prison were nothing compared to real world problems; come on Jean, there are people dying out there, was a daily mantra I held for myself because the problems I faced weren’t real. They weren’t something you would see on the front page of the local news. No headline reading, “Local teen doesn’t know what he wants to do with this life” or “Yet again, teen boy is berated by his father due to-” whatever it was that day that I was told was not good enough about me. To everyone else, those problems didn’t exist; because I didn’t let them exist outside of my own subconscious.   
What was I to complain about really? My father was a down home, hard working ‘American man’ who lived up to his french parents dream of being the personification of the American dream. We were an upper middle class family who went through money like we were a much richer family; but somehow, for year on end, I was under the impression that it never caught up with us.   
My mother on the other hand, was a stay at home mom; the kind who began botox treatments at the age of twenty five and began planning my wedding when I was old enough to walk. She was kind in her own way, by making a nice dinner joined by only me and her since the man given the title of ‘dad’ often was so busy working that he would conveniently just forget that he had a family at home.   
It was like that for eighteen years actually, until nine days after my high school graduation when he packed his bags, making sure he had all that he needed (Not including us) and running off with his mistress of four years to some unknown country in Central America where cheating bastards go.   
I want to say that I was devastated by the news that my father had left myself and my mother, a woman who had clearly no job, no skills and no educational base for a higher paying job; except for maybe an extensive knowledge of botox and plastic surgery thanks to her experiences with her surgeon, but I wasn’t really devastated. Ironically enough, my mother wasn’t that devastated either, for the shit-head was still paying the bills on the house; whether he knew it or not since they auto debited his cards. As well as car insurance and all necessary bills, including college tuition fees, which were so graciously paid for by the asshole. We still needed money however, spending money, emergency money, all of that. Usually that would be the job of the ever-grateful son, the one who now stepped up to help his mother in need, but mom didn’t need that, for she stepped up on her own. In three weeks she had her medical assistant license and in four she had a successful job at a local cosmetologists’ office. Leaving me, the useless son, one who wasn’t even sure if he wanted to be a journalist his entire life. Even though my father was gone, the unspoken pressure to be the perfect son remained; it loomed in the back of mind like a giant rain cloud just waiting to rain on my parade.  
But to me it was real, the weight pressing down on my chest, crushing my lungs and ribs with every added responsibility and expectation that felt like two tons each. I was just waiting, wishing, wanting, for my chest to snap and the pressure to finally be relieved. I didn’t want to disappoint mom, to see her saddened face would probably kill me at that point; I just wanted something, anything, to relieve the pain.  
Of course I want to say that I found my pain relief as an ‘act of God’ or ‘my saving grace’ that ultimately was a situation crafted by the gods in some merciful act of fate on behalf of me: lonely, lost teenager number 7,300,674,281. But when you come down to it, my pain relief was the result of the infamous Connie Springer and his desire to flirt with everything that resembled a female. Connie has been my best friend since kindergarten, when Ms. Rose, unfortunately, sat the two most rambunctious boys in the class beside each other. It was a classic mistake by any teacher who taught any age group below six, but that unfortunate mistake would create a friendship that would blossom into one of the most trouble-making flowers Trost Middle and High school has ever seen. In my defense, it was mostly Connie; the kid had a knack for getting himself into dumb situations and not being able to think of a way out, but that’s where I came in. If it wasn’t for my ability to bull-shit my way through anything, we probably would have been in jail nearly ten years ago.   
Our dynamic duo met an untimely increase in the beginning of our freshman year at Trost High school, with the arrival of several more people I would come to call friends by the end of the year… Most of them anyways. Armin was a good guy, one who would help me pass my Calculus final when the last semester of Senior year rolled around. It was really Christa and Armin who kept me from failing all of my classes by that time, both of whom spent more time than necessary urging Connie and I to at least try and study so that we didn’t flunk out of high school just in time to leave. The addition of Eren and Mikasa, adopted siblings who moved in from Southern California, was both troublesome and wonderful. Eren was and is a gigantic pain in my ass, and despite her annoying piece-of-shit brother, my crush on Mikasa was steadfast throughout High School. What made it worse, was that everyone but her knew it too.   
That pressure only added more tension to my chest, the more I thought about it on what I thought to be a non-important Saturday Night in the middle of June; just a week after finals, marking the end of my freshman year in College.   
Theoretically, I should have had a girlfriend by now, right? Isn’t that whole growing up thing supposed to throw a female my way after hitting puberty, as a reward or some shit for surviving the worst part of a teenage boys’ life? There was Mikasa...But the more I thought about it, the more I was sure that she’d actually rather date Eren than me, both a creepy and depressing thought. It also didn’t help that I was adorned in the rattiest sweatpants I had in my closet, re-watching old episodes of The Office and working on my third cup of coffee for the day. I hadn’t showered since the night before since I had known fully well that mom would be off working the entire day, then go out until three am with her girlfriends at a local Pub.   
But who knew a house so large, could feel so constricting? Our three level house was adorned with stainless steel and leather because when my newly wedded parents first moved in, that was what the style was at the time. At least that’s what my mother told me when she had a little too much of wine for dinner and she was already through complaining about whatever else was on her mind. My bedroom, where old band posters hung on the walls, my solid black comforter adorning my bed and contrasting the white walls, and the clothes that gave the room the essence of ‘college student,’ was on the top floor, along with my bathroom that was impeccably clean, despite the state of my room. The middle floor housed the living room, complete with flatscreen, a large leather couch, and a nice counter separating the posh kitchen on one side from the living room where I spent many of my lazy days. On the other was the staircase and a hallway that lead to another bathroom and mom’s suite, since the ass-hat had moved out. The basement was a nice theatre, two large leather couches and coffee tables everywhere in front of the huge plasma and surround sound that made the entire room come to life with whatever was being watched.   
I’d always enjoyed the living room better when I wanted to watch shows or movies on a lazy afternoon. Simply because I didn’t have to worry about trudging up and down the stairs with food or drinks, thus decreasing my chances of death on that particular day by nearly three hundred percent.   
Although, that particular Lazy Saturday turned out to be significantly less lazy than I originally intended it to be, all thanks to Connie and his desire to flirt. All I heard on the first, fuzzy call at exactly Five-forty one pm was that there was, ‘some hot chick at Salsa’s.’ and something about a ‘Fee-esta’. Truth be told I wasn’t entirely listening. Although there was one part that stuck with me, “I’ll be there in Five!”   
Surely enough, five minutes later Connie bursts into my house panting like he had just run a marathon across town. His shaved head was glistening with sweat, no doubt because his dumb-ass hadn’t gotten his car fixed and there was still no air conditioning in the death-trap on wheels which he called a Truck. There was even a bit of sweat visible through his shirt due to his old white Nirvana t-shirt that provided a nice glimpse of the amount of sweat that a human could produce in five minutes, even the green and white ‘TROST HS SOCCER TEAM’ jacket he wore over it, which he got from his whole two weeks on the team, did nothing to hide his sweat covered frame, from no doubt rushing as quickly as he could to come tell me about this ‘hot chick’.   
“Jeanbo! O-h my god..” The breathless mess of testosterone and bad pickup lines manages to somehow say in a breathless tone whilst flopping down on the closest arm chair to the couch. “you won't believe how hot this girl was at Salsa’s-”

“Uh huh-” I nod absentmindedly, there was no reason to believe this was unlike any other ‘hot chick’, so I watched as Paula Deen continues to bask the chicken she was cooking in mango salsa..

“-and you're coming with.” 

Wait what?

Of course that statement alone was enough to snap me out of my haze of staring at the golden chicken with mango salsa on the screen (a daze probably caused by the fact I hadn't eaten real food in maybe two days. Unless microwave spaghetti was now it’s own food group).

“the hell are you signing me up for?” I said with a quirked eyebrow, shooting the cheeky bastard, who obviously was trying to repress that shit eating grin of his, an unamused look. 

“You, me, Fiesta at Salsa’s tonight and before you even say anything Jeanbo. Armin, Christa, Eren and your girlfriend are all going.”

“She's not-” 

Those were my famous last words, for before I knew it. Connie Springer was blackmailing me into driving in his metal death-trap of a truck towards the only authentic Mexican restaurant in the entirety of Trost. Unless you counted Taco Hell.

 

Before long, I, Jean Kirschtein, was dragged into my first ever ‘Fee-esta’ as Connie liked to call it, because butchering anything that was not plain English was a rather good skill of his that he had been using since he first learned that not everyone spoke English.

Apparently I was the last to join the party with the dipshit, for once we stepped into the rather large, brick restaurant with lights illuminating the golden letters that spelled out ‘Salsa’s’ outside, we were ushered towards a rather large booth across the large main room and past what looked to be a dance floor, with even a damn fountain in the middle. The design of the restaurant was a Neo-Aztec meets the city, meaning that the restaurant, bar and club (at night), had an interesting mixture of plaster, old windows, posters and even plants, with small bits of old brick peaking through the textured and yellow-painted plaster that covered most of the walls of the large restaurant. Of course it gave it rustic, old styled-Mexican kind of aura; that along with the dim lighting that came from various older looking streetlights; holding colored bulbs that seemed to stick to white, green and red across the room. But on the upper floor of the restaurant, which looked to be storage of tables and chairs, hidden rather well behind realistic looking vines, there were also strings of multicolored LED lights, spanning from the top floor railing to one point in the center of the room. Ironically enough, all of the strings of multicolored lights lead to a disco ball hanging above the fountain, reflecting small pieces of light from the colored lights onto the brick walls that made up the wall under the railing and on the old posters and paintings showing characteristics of Mexican Culture that I sure as hell didn’t know at the time. 

We were in one of the booths just under the overhang of the storage upstairs, meaning we got the best view of the large main room, and an even cooler view of a very interesting ceiling, meaning it looked like a decrepit wooden ceiling; but it was obvious that someone made it intentionally look old just to add to that rustic atmosphere that made you feel like you had just stepped back in time to some small town in the middle of Mexico. Apparently, everyone else in the restaurant had caught the memo that it was the kind of establishment you wore slacks and a nice shirt to, unlike me who was sporting a comfortable teal hoodie that I had managed to pull on over a hideous yellow shirt that I had gotten from Connie years ago from some vacation he went on.   
Even my group of friends were dressed nicely, the small frame of Christa was adorned with a light blue and white sun dress that hung nicely on her tiny frame; especially since he was sandwiched between Eren and Mikasa, both of whom (being normal size mind you) made the beautiful blonde look even tinier than normally. The memo to dress nicely was even passed onto the Dipshit Eren Jaeger, who wore a pair of dark slacks and a button down sweater over a v-neck. 

“Look what the cat dragged in-” Eren says once connie and I flopped down across from Eren, Mikasa and Christa, leaving Connie to be sandwiched between me and Armin for the remainder of dinner. Although he didn’t seem to mind, since he was looking around frantically nearly the entire time. 

 

“Look what the cat threw up-” I replied with a self-satisfied smirk, not even looking up from my menu to know that Eren’s eyes were narrowed and his fucking smile was now eradicated from his stupid features. Good.

I want to say that we had a civilized dinner, where all of us acted like the young adults we were pretending to be and that in fact Eren and I didn’t insult each other every chance we got, so much so that it resembled a sixth grade fight. But we did. Eren ended up with homemade Guacamole on his shirt, Christa and Armin were our parents once again, convincing us that we were acting stupid then making us feel bad. Mikasa was as silent as ever, but as beautiful as ever too, even as I stole glances towards her distracted frame every now and then. All the while, Connie was still looking for this mysterious ‘Hot chick’ he had seen earlier.

We were just about to leave, when his big break came. Although it wasn’t because he saw the girl he was looking for, it was because of the sudden dimming of the lights and a single spotlight in the middle of the cleared dancefloor; illuminating the man that had formerly been our waiter. I had caught his name before, Samuel. His dark brown locks and rather tanned skin was definitely some indication that he was hispanic,(not that I was racist, just an observation) that and the accent that barely came out with just a few words when taking our orders had been a rather good indication. But then again my knowledge of Hispanic culture and Spanish accents was based in watching old Antonio Banderas’ movies or listening to him play an overly fluffy cat on cartoons.   
Unlike when he was taking our orders, Samuel was sporting a rather nice get-up, one I had only ever seen previously in said Antonio Banderas movies. It looked to be a black, long - sleeved suit jacket over a silver vest, matching embellishments snaking down his shoulders like and twisting vine and giving the jacket a sense of flair that was sure wasn't there before they were added. Above the vest, covering what looked to be another white button up dress shirt was what I could only describe as a red, frilly even, cravat. But it wasn't the normal tomato red or “I'm trying to march my prom date’s dress-” red, it was almost crimson, the color of blood and honor. Just to top it all off, he wore a matching sombrero with silver designs sewn into the bottom rim and even on top of the top edge, allowing the material to glimmer in the spotlight that illuminated the nervous looking musician. I had to give it to the guy, I would have shit bricks if I were standing where he was, clutching the violin tucked safely under his arm like it was his last life line in this entire world.   
“Bienvenidos a Salsa’s Ladies and gentlemen-” Samuel says in a surprisingly loud voice, allowing it to weave through the various servers and tables, carrying to the ears of the drunken and sober people alike as they turned to face the man standing in the middle of the dance floor, all by his lonesome and facing the hungry eyes of all of the customers, wordlessly asking why their dinners were interrupted by some kid in a Halloween costume.  
It’d be a lie to say the entire moment wasn’t enchanting, in an exotic kind of way.  
The entire restaurant seemed to be at a standstill, watching the intense, but exhilarating moment pass with Samuel; after all, many of those watching, myself included were all too focused on what was going to happen to notice the arrival of anyone else behind the tanned, dark haired male currently speaking.   
“As many of you know, it is Fiesta Saturday aqui en Salsa’s featuring a night of dancing and music. Pero, Before dance lessons, I am proud to present our very own Mariachi band, Los Soldados!” He calls, his voice carrying once more through the entire expanse of the rather large restaurant just as another five people suddenly step forward into the light, previously unnoticed because of all eyes focusing on Samuel, and partially to the darkness of all of their outfits, all matching and nearly looking the same except for the clear physical differences among the musicians.   
That’s right about the time that I felt the sharp elbow to my ribs, courtesy of Connie, followed by a hushed and excited whisper, “There she is!” Although, there were three girls out of the six players that stepped into the expanding light and I was confused to say the least as to which one ‘she’ was according to Connie.  
He made sure to clear it up however by humming and making a bad joke about how he would gladly let her blow his trumpet any day. Gross.  
So now That I knew it was the pretty Brown-red head that Connie was trying to harass, the one with a relatively pale complexion, holding a trumpet by her side and seeming to watch the only person I currently had my eyes on.   
He was quite possibly the most beautiful man I had ever seen in all of my years at staring at beautiful people; mostly women, but I’ll admit to staring at the occasional pretty boy. But this boy, rather Man, took the entire damn bakery when compared to everyone else. He stood in the front of the six of them, closest to the audience and our table while cradling a black guitar against his chest that shone as much in the spotlight as his flawless smile did. It was the kind of smile that could stop your heart on the minute and make you question why you never fell in love before that moment.   
It was the kind of smile that made me forget all about the pressures of being Jean Kirschtein. So for a few moments, I was just a college student, out with his friends and drooling over a hot Mariachi player.   
The rest of the players consisted of Samuel with his violin, as well as a much smaller girl with black hair also tucked up into a ponytail underneath her sombrero and her violin held in a similar fashion to that of our former server. There was also another taller male, although he was a bit paler than Samuel and stood beside Connie’s object of harassment with his own trumpet in the ready position; but his dark hair matched that of the majority of the other players. There was one more woman playing what Eren dubbed the ‘Pregnant guitar’ because it was much larger than the one that was currently being held by my freckled Mariachi God, although the woman with the pregnant guitar was also freckled as far as I could tell past her darker olive skin and striking eyes, barely hidden behind her long brown locks. Her instrument had a tan face and a much more rounded back, but for the most part, it looked like a guitar in every other aspect; it even sounded oddly similar as she began to pluck several chords in the beginning of a song.  
Those few chords rang out for several seconds, reverberating in the nearly quiet room until she continued, her fingers moving swiftly to cover the strings necessary in order to create the beautiful but mysterious beginning to a song that I didn’t even knew existed before this very moment. Shortly after, she was joined by my freckled Mariachi god, playing a series of higher chords to continue her original pattern as she and her instrument settled into the harmony to accompany the rapid plucking and the rather robust voice of the singer as he continued in his song.   
“Soy un hombre muy honrado...que me gusta lo mejor…” His song began, his deep and well rounded voice was like the droplets of rain against warm, flushed skin. It was chilling with it’s simplicity but electrifying with the complexity of the entire song, only played on the two guitars and controlled by that nice Tenor voice that seemed to radiate like the rays of the sun from the seemingly ecstatic mariachi. The entirety of the three minutes in which he sang seemed like ten years, giving me a glimpse into a culture and a lifestyle I had never once considered to be anything real outside of the stereotypical Mexican Movies where everyone wears a sombrero and eats churros for breakfast lunch and dinner. Although, as to which Mexican movie was like that, I had no clue. At that point, just staring at the freckled god in front of me was enough for my mind to go blank and any semblance of reason I may or may not have had, was gone when I stepped into the front door of Salsa’s.  
I can’t imagine the extent of how badly I must have looked in the eyes of not only my friends, but that beautiful singer. There was no doubt that my cheeks were as red as the cravat covering his white dress shirt, the only reason I knew was because I could feel the heat radiating off of me. Quite frankly, I felt like a teenage boy all over again, just staring at Mikasa from across the classroom.   
Although Mikasa didn’t even hold a candle to how beautiful he was.   
I swear I’m straight.   
Their set in it’s entirety was forty minutes long, including a series of what I assumed to be sad songs; based on how Connie’s object of harassment seemed to quiet down on blowing on that God-forsaken instrument of torture many called a trumpet. Although, during its entirety, I had no clue what my object of affection was saying. Of course I caught a few words here and there, but other than the occasional ‘amor’ and ‘mujer’, four years of spanish in high school had done me no good.   
The original plan for our group, another detail that I was blissfully unaware of until Eren nearly yanked me back from my reverie, was that the plan was we were going to leave at eight in order to get going to see a movie. At least, that’s what Eren’s, Mikasa’s and Armin’s plans were, and apparently they were sticking to them. Thus, that’s how our table of six, dramatically resized to a much smaller table of three where the only decent person sitting at the table was poor Christa, who was not about to go see another Horror movie in the ‘Purge’ Franchise. Honestly the more I thought about it, I found it strikingly odd that they had managed to get Armin to go. He was, after all, the kid who cried at the Budweiser commercials that had puppies in them.  
But I didn’t dwell on it too much thanks again to Connie, for once the band was done playing and they all took their well earned bows, the bald (as he said “I’m bald by choice!”) man-child began to shove me out of my seat at the end of the booth and towards the dancefloor where the singer, with his dazzling self, began to speak in a loud voice, “Hola y Bienvenido! We are Los Soldados, I am Marco-” I stepped onto the edge of the dance floor, flanked by Connie and seemingly Christa, who was interested in something just as much as Connie and myself it seems. “Soy Ymir-” The woman with the pregnant guitar says as she holds up the larger instrument, like a makeshift wave to the audience that had began to crowd behind us three, all drooling over someone on the floor. “Soy Sasha!” The girl on the other side of Marco pipes up with a broad smile and a bounce of excitement, trumpet in hands and her Red-Brown hair bouncing in her ponytail, sending several strands of the rich hair forward to frame her face.   
“Soy Mina-” The smallest of the women on the floor says, her dark black hair was similar to that of Mikasa’s, although she looked considerably nicer as she stood beside Samuel with her violin that was at least half of the size of her entire height. “Soy Samuel-” Our former waiter says with a sheepish smile, apparently he wasn’t too good under the limelight. The last of the Mariachi players, was the giant trumpet player who towered over nearly everyone else in the band, except for Ymir who seemed to be in a close second. “Soy Bertolt-”  
By the time the last of the players spoke, there was now what looked to be a majority of the restaurant crowded behind Connie, Christa and myself, staring out at the Mariachi players, although many of them not quite seeming to be as enamored as we were. “It was a pleasure to play for you this evening-” He begins, the genuine gratitude of his words was nearly palpable as he looks out, scanning the crowd; those beautiful, from what I could tell, Almond eyes were everywhere, but nowhere in particular at any given moment.   
For a brief second, I even felt the heat of his gaze on me. But as quickly as it was there, It was gone, along with my sanity.  
“Anoche, we will be joining you for dancing if you would like to learn how to dance. Pero, if not, we hope you enjoyed the show, and we hope to see you again!” A roar of applause come forth from the sea of people behind us, spurring the three of us, out of politeness, to clap as well and watch as the band walked away towards what looked to be a well disguised door just a ways away. As if on cue, music began to play from speakers that had been well hidden behind the twisting vines atop of the railing of the second floor. The music itself was nice and cheery, with a good beat and a rather nice, light acoustic guitar solo that seemed to define the piece. Once the song began to play, a few brave souls began to walk into the middle of the floor, surrounding the constantly flowing fountain made of stone and trying to make sense of their own two left feet as they tried to dance to the song.   
In regards to the three of us, the fact of the matter was that we had no sense of rhythm; the last time Connie and I tried to dance in the same room, one of us ended up with a black eye and the other had a stain on their brand new suit jacket. It didn’t take a genius to figure out which one of us was the one with the black eye after a rather eventful senior prom. Christa didn’t want to dance by herself either, not in the midst of a sea of drunkards; they’d trample the poor girl, so she just stuck by our sides, sandwiched between Connie and I like we were her personal body guards. That is, until Connie went running forward into the crowd of dancing people like the madman he truly was; I always knew he was going to snap.   
“Jean, where’s he going?” Christa asks in a rather small voice, apparently it wasn’t just me who saw no rhyme or reason in the madness that was my best friend.   
“Hell if I know-” A tirade of insults was just about to bubble up past my lips concerning Connie and his intense desire to get laid, when suddenly I saw a dark blotch from the corner of my eye. Rather, a person in dark clothing, walking directly towards Christa. A tall, dark, person with piercing eyes and long brown tresses of hair pulled back in a ponytail, no longer constrained by a sombrero. “Quiere baila-” The rather tall woman named Ymir says as she stands before Christa, extending a rather slim hand towards the petite blonde by my side who looked more like a deer in headlights than her normal, composed and smiling self.   
“S-sure-!” She literally squeaks before sliding her hand into the hand of the much larger woman and walking forward onto the dance floor hand in hand. Christa did have the manners to spare me a glance though as she walked forward onto the floor, the colored lights and the small circles of light from the disco-ball lighting up her brilliant blonde locks for seconds at a time until I could no longer see her in the crowd of people trying to dance to the song, which I once more had no clue as to what it was saying.   
As I stood by the sidelines in my rather dull get up, I couldn’t help but recall all of those awkward middle-school dances that Connie and I went to where the girls would stand on one side and the guys would stand on the other, neither daring to bridge that awkward, hormone filled gap and admit to the opposite sex that they wanted to dance. Those particular memories were never really the most refreshing, especially at the current moment. Who wants to relive some of the worst, and most awkward years in their life? Certainly, not me. But then again Who really wanted to relive their entire life in one night?  
It wasn’t until the song changed, coming to a nice end with the sound of a drum, but the beat was quickly picked up by another song that seemed even more lively than the last, a song that I would come to know very well as the song that was playing during the moment where I officially lost myself to an unfamiliar pair of almond eyes. However, with the colored lights shining down onto the dance floor, his eyes were now an indescribable mixture of color that I’m sure even the greatest of artists couldn’t give a name to. I was so lost in my reverie that I didn’t even notice when the man I had previously been staring at, now without the sombrero, but still wearing that beautiful smile, began to make his way towards me.  
Holy shit-  
Smooth right? I was one hundred percent sure that I looked like someone had insulted me in the worst way, or the epitome of a deer in headlights, just before impact.   
It was quite possibly the sweetest impact I had ever felt in my life, the kind of impact that was bittersweet. The poison was finally hitting my veins, every surprise I had in my life was nothing when I came back from day-dreaming of my awkward middle school years to find that the man I had been drooling over for nearly an hour was walking towards me, his eyes set on me.   
Many survivors of great tragedies often describe those few seconds before they thought they were going to die, where time itself seems to slow and the entire world spinning just stops for that person as their body begins to react in ways that they can’t even imagine to the life threatening situation. Now, my body wasn’t exactly preventing me from being murdered or dying in a natural disaster, but for those few seconds as the man approached me, I could have sworn that time itself stood still; that for those few seconds all I could see, and all I could even think about was how his freckles pooled just below those beautiful, glimmering eyes.   
So needless to say when he finally spoke up, above the symphony of sounds ranging from laughing to the steady beat of the song, I was completely dumbstruck. About as stupefied as I was on my last Applied Calculus test. But this wasn’t advanced calculus, this was just a really attractive mariachi trying to talk to me. Jean Kirschtein, straight teenager and professional couch potato.  
“Do you want to dance?”  
“I uh- What?”   
Yes. Me. Jean Kirschtein, the epitome of all that is smooth. Shit.  
“Oh- I uh, yea sure.” I finally managed to stutter out, sending a prayer to whatever deity was out there watching over me since I had managed not to choke on my own spit or say some corny line that no doubt would be the result of hanging out with Connie too much. I also silently hoped and prayed that in fact Marco didn’t smile at me. It was a bit of a stupid wish, but I didn’t want to faint or blush even more than I’m sure I was.   
It took nearly a minute for me to get myself to the point that I told myself I could do this, it was just a dance lesson after all; the Mariachi band members to teach poor suckers like me how to dance, right? At least, that’s what I chanted to myself as we took the standard waltz position, the only thing I knew about dancing was that damn dance. My nervousness must have been apparent, because a soft chuckle was heard from Marco, followed by a gentle “Esta bien? I mean-” He laughs softly at his own blunder, a hint of pink dusting his cheeks; but whether it was because of his mistake or it was hot in those clothing, I will never know. “-It’s okay, si? I will help you.” His voice sounded so sure, but only I knew that I was beyond the point of help when it came to dancing.  
But there’s no harm in letting him try anyways, right?  
Vague instructions followed the mumbled reassurance, three minutes and twenty six seconds of them to be exact about a style of dance called ‘bachata’, or so Marco called it. I didn’t catch a single word of it, but once he began to move, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I had imagined it to be. I wasn’t stumbling over his feet and tripping, I wasn’t falling backwards into the fountain and drowning like I had feared I would. Hell, we weren’t even really running into anyone else, probably thanks to his guidance and a careful eye to keep my skittish ass away from anyone.   
After I seemed to have some sense of rhythm in my body, previously undiscovered before that moment, Marco speaks up. “Your name is Jean, no?” I never knew my heart could sink in my chest so quickly from just five simple words.   
“Yea- How’d you know?” I didn’t mean to sound suspicious, but when there was someone like Marco, who knew your name and asked you to dance when you clearly looked like you rolled out of bed, there was something a bit fishy about it.  
“Tu amigo-...Connie? Told me you wanted to learn how to dance-” With this, I could feel the shock on my face as I looked at Marco, who didn’t seem to be as phased as I was by the information. His face still held that ever present smile, one I was nearly sure was constantly on his face at that point. “But based on his description, you are not as bad as I was expecting-” Marco says with another soft laugh barely moving past those lips, which I took the opportunity to notice that there was even a freckle or two around his surprisingly pink lips. But of course, with the colored lights and the atmosphere of it all, they looked more green than anything.  
“Yea, He’s a bit of an ass..” I mumble, more for the sake of my sanity than for Marco’s benefit to find out that my best friend was in fact, not as nice as Marco had presumed. Connie never did things without an ulterior motive, unless he was drunk. Then I never knew why or what he was doing.   
I was so caught up in the new information and the moment, that I didn’t even notice the song had changed once more. What I did notice however, was the soft humming emanating from Marco’s chest, the sound just loud enough for me to hear, since I couldn’t really feel anything vibrate beside the floor under our feet from at least forty people dancing wildly. Surprisingly enough the change in song didn’t really do much to our dancing tempo, meaning that I was still free to talk for a moment when I wasn’t focusing on not tripping and following Marco’s lead.  
“I don’t really-...speak spanish. What is it saying?” I’ll be the first to admit that perhaps this wasn’t the best first impression I wanted to give to anyone who clearly celebrated their heritage as much as I celebrated a new TV show coming out with Gordon Ramsay, but I was trying to keep up a conversation at least. That was about ten times better than I was normally. If it was a normal night then I’d be watching someone else do this from the corner booth.  
“I want to kiss you-” Apparently I wasn’t the only one who spoke without really thinking sometimes for it seemed that caught us both off guard when Marco uttered the statement. But you didn’t really hear me complaining.   
“E-el cancion! T-the song, it says I want to kiss you.” Marco stuttered as a rather refreshing look of embarrassment began to take over his features and he began to resemble the color of his crimson cravat. His rich brown eyes were averted to some unknown spot as he did so, and his lips were turned up in what I could only say was the cutest embarrassed smile I had ever seen in all of my years in Trost. Although his expression was ever changing with whatever mistake he was making or whatever smile he was shooting someone in an attempt to have them have a heart attack, his body and the dancing rhythm we shared was steadfast. It was as constant as my anxiety had been up until those cherished moments beneath colored lights and listening to music that was played much too loud, so much so that I was nearly sure it was a detriment to my health when it began to play.   
But I didn’t care.   
“Thanks.” I said after a short laugh, the first I had in a long time that wasn’t because of some dumb joke said by Connie, as much as I loved the kid he had the worst jokes and I was starting to get tired of his shit.  
Speaking of getting tired of Connie’s shit, the kid had impeccable timing when it came to ruining perfect moments. It was like he knew when I was at the happiest, or when he could embarrass me the most, and he would just swoop in like a clumsy falcon. So when Connie rushed forward suddenly, tugging on the sleeve of my hoodie so hard that I was nearly ripped from Marco’s warm embrace, I wanted to punch him. “Jeanbo we gotta go!” He looked frantic, breathing heavily and nearly sweating as much as he had been when he burst into my door hours before and kidnapped me to have the best night of my life.  
“What the fuck, why?” I said as I reluctantly relinquished my hold on Marco’s hands, coming to a stop in the middle of our dance and only offering him an apologetic smile before looking back to connie, with Christa now standing behind him looking much more calm than he.   
“It’s okay! My curfew is just at ten and it’s already nine-forty-”  
Oh Shit.  
There was a reason we all called Christa’s father the king, it was because he imposed the strictest, most harsh rule that any of us had ever seen on a teenage girl, even if she was a freshman in college already. That and he was the mayor of Trost. Piss him off and you’d find yourself in the Trost city prison for as long as he deemed necessary.   
“Come on man we’ve got to go!”   
I didn’t even really get a chance to say goodbye since I was yanked backwards from the dance floor and nearly dragged to Connie’s piece of shit truck that somehow managed to get us from Salsa’s to Christa’s house on the nice side of town, usually a twenty minute drive that the metal death trap was able to finish in fifteen, giving Christa ample time to walk up to the front of her house and giving Connie and I a good time cushion so that way we didn’t find our asses in the city jail for the night.  
After all, that’s not how you live up to your societal expectations of being a good son, expectations I had managed to forget the entire time I was at Salsa’s. It was refreshing really, to be able to be a young adult with someone who didn’t know you, who didn’t know that my piece of shit father had flown the coop or that I was a giant ball of anxiety that at any time was just going to explode under the unspoken pressure that I felt every day from my mother, my teachers and even the asshole who was a thousand miles away and still plaguing me with his expectations. It was nice to be something other than ‘the kid’, the youngest, most foolish one in the family because he didn’t know what to do with his life, he didn’t know what he wanted to be or who he wanted to be. I was that kid. I was the one standing on the edge of the cliff, looking out at the future I could have and trying to make sense of it all, I could see the waves of my happy future lapping at the bottom of the cliff, I had no idea on how to get there though. Not without jumping head first, something I didn’t know if I would ever be able to do.  
Once more, for the last time that night, I was pulled from my thoughts of impending doom and how I was going to drown under the waves of responsibility I would no doubt begin to feel lapping at my toes and beginning to consume all that I was. “So I got her number. That girl Sasha’s-” Connie says as he drives me through the bustling city streets of trost, heading towards my colorless, empty house that I would soon be able to lose myself in once more.  
“Yea? Good for you man. I’m proud of you..” I mumbled, that was my half assed response to nearly everything that Connie had to say when I was either too tired or too consumed in my own thoughts to think correctly.  
“Yea, they have a gig next weekend that I’m going to.”   
“Mhh hmm..” I hummed once more, I could already feel it coming.  
“-And you’re coming with.”  
There it was. The beginning of the water lapping at my toes, the feeling of sinking and never being able to come up any higher as I was pulled further and further down into the abyss of anxiety. The only difference now, was that I could see the sunlight through the water. That smile, the weightless feeling I had when dancing with him, or even watching him sing..  
The feeling of being liberated, of being myself was more inspiring than any pep talks by Connie, or any amount of alcohol that I could drink and I would go to any amount of musical outings, just to get that feeling again.


End file.
